Bleeding Through
by Vampire-Badger
Summary: Post ToKW Connor wakes in the middle of the night and finds a familiar stranger in his kitchen.
1. Chapter 1

Connor did not drink large amounts of alcohol. He had seen what it has done to others, and he knew he cannot hold it well himself- he disliked the way it makes everything blur at the edges. He was an assassin. The world needs to be clear and sharp. There was no room for error in his line of work.

But today, he realized he could use a drink. The world made less sense than it ever did before; at this time a year ago, he never would have believed that other worlds existed. He never would have believed in the pain that could come from visiting them. The lines between reality and dreams were more blurred than ever they had been, and he had a hard time believing that anything he could do would make it worse.

"Worse" had come and gone long ago. He had watched his mother die as a child. Killed first his best friend and then his father with his own hands. And all for what? The empty promises of a voice whose lies had seemed so welcome when he was young. He felt his mouth quirk into a grim smile at the memory- leaving his village for the first time, young and naïve, so blissfully unaware of all the hurt still left for the world to heap upon him.

Well, he had learned.

He considered stopping in at The Mile's End as he passed the inn, but decided against it. The trip in the _Aquilla _to dispose of the Apple had not been a long one, but it had left him emotionally drained and not in a mood for crowds. Instead, he turned his steps toward the large white house on the hill, the place he still thought of as Achilles's, even though the old man had been dead for years now.

He paused in the doorway, listening to the silence of the building. The house was too large for one person, especially as his duties often took him away from it for long times. Dust clung to every surface, and some of parts had started to fall into disrepair. The house had begun to look much as it had when Connor had first come to live with Achilles. The thought made him even more tired, and slowly he climbed the stairs to his room. A good night's sleep was probably what he needed more than anything else at the moment, even if he knew his dreams would be far from comforting.

-/-

In the middle of the night, he woke. This time, however, it was not the dreams that jolted him from sleep, but a soft sound somewhere below him in the house. It could not be one of the homesteaders- few of them knew exactly what Connor did, but all of them knew better than to enter unannounced in the middle of the night. It could have been one of the assassin recruits- one of them might have come in if they had news they believed warranted it, but none of them were nearby; templars were causing mayhem in the Carolinas, and Connor had sent his men (and Dobby) to deal with it. Unless something had gone horribly wrong on the way and they had been forced to turn around early, they could not have possibly returned already.

That left only strangers; thieves or outlaws who thought they could take what they wanted. Connor swung out of bed on silent feet, grabbed the nearest weapon to hand (his tomahawk), and slipped from the room. Unfortunately for whoever the intruder might be, he was not in a forgiving mood.

A quick examination of the upper floor showed no unwelcome visitors, so Connor hurried down to the ground floor, where he stood in a crouch at the base of the stairs, waiting for the noise to repeat itself before he made his move, but he heard nothing. The thieves might have left already, he thought with a twinge of annoyance. Either that or they had somehow heard him coming and hidden themselves.

Nothing for it; still tense, he slid forward out of his crouch and began a careful examination of the rooms on the ground floor. The first three he checked were empty, and he had nearly resigned himself to the fact that the thieves had gotten away (although he had noticed nothing missing, so if they had noticed him and been scared off, at least they would not profit out of the night), when he came at last to the kitchen and saw the body spread out on the floor there.

He froze, staring at the man; he was in bad shape, breathing shallowly and clearly unconscious. He lay among the ruins of the large table in the middle of the room, as though he had been thrown into it with some violence (but by who? Or what?). That had been the sound that had woken Connor.

Cautiously, and without lowering his weapon, Connor edged closer to examine the man. He was younger than Connor, probably no older than his late twenties, and wore strange clothes, along with a hidden blade strapped to one arm. His hands were both badly burned, and he had more than a few scratches and bruises from his collision with Connor's table, but otherwise he seemed completely unharmed. There was no reason, as far as Connor could see, for him to not be awake.

Instead, he seemed moments away from dying.

All thoughts of violence now abandoned, Connor slid his tomahawk into his belt and knelt to lift the injured man from the floor. Clearly, he had not come to the house to steal, and Connor wanted to know how he had come to be there.

There were only two beds in the house at this point; his own, and the one that had belonged to Achilles. Connor had not been able to bring himself to touch any of the old man's belongings, and he still used his when he was home. He hesitated before bringing the stranger to Achilles's room and laying him out on the long untouched bed.

He hesitated just a moment before leaving the room; the man had been curled up on his side when Connor saw him in the kitchen, as if in feeble protection against some unseen threat. This was the first time Connor had been able to get a good look at his face, and he found that he recognized it.

Amid the many strange things he had seen in the world the apple had created, Connor had been subjected to a series of incredibly lucid memories, mostly moments of his own life he had thought long forgotten. All but one, which had not been a memory of his own, but an image of a man, hands clasped around a glowing sphere, clearly in an incredible amount of pain.

It was this same man who now lay before Connor on Achilles's bed.

The man moaned, a weak sound, and Connor stepped back. Doctor White would need to be called- there was nothing Connor could do for the man. He was a killer, not a healer.

-/-

Desmond woke slowly, slipping in and out of consciousness like a radio trying to tune in on a bad station. More often than not he dreamed. Sometimes he dreamed of Juno, of dying, and of the people he had been tried to save. Sometimes he dreamed of his ancestors. Once, he thought he woke, but found himself looking at a taciturn Connor, leaning against a wall, arms crossed, staring straight at him. Just another dream.

Or so he thought until one day he woke completely. It was as though a switch had been flipped inside his head, and one morning he woke to the sound of birds singing outside.

He hesitated, trying to figure out where he was. A hospital of some kind? Certainly no room he had ever been in before. He sat up, opened his eyes, and nearly fell out of bed. He _had _been in this room, but never as himself- only in the animus. It was more dirty than it had ever looked in his ancestor's memories, less cared for, older. But still clearly the same place.

"Oh you're awake, are you?" A middle aged woman with a kind face had just come into the room. She smiled at him and Desmond realized he was staring. He'd never seen her before in his life, but he recognized her- again, thanks to the animus. Diana, if he was remembering right.

He felt like puking, and no sooner had he realized it then he was bent over, spewing out he didn't even know what, as he didn't know how long he'd been unconscious. His brain (which seemed to be throwing up the stupidest thoughts possible, possibly in an attempt to avoid facing what was going on around him) pointed out that since the last thing he remembered eating had been in 2012, he'd probably just thrown up something that he hadn't even eaten yet.

Which didn't make it any less gross.

"That's it." Diana carefully maneuvered around the puddle of sick on the floor and started to clean it. "I know it's not a lot of fun but you'll feel better after."

"What year is it?" Desmond asked. "I-" he couldn't keep the panic off his face or out of his voice. Diana, who had looked like she was about to laugh at his question, suddenly seemed concerned.

"1783," she said.

1783. Over two hundred years before he had even been born. He'd known it, obviously- as soon as he'd opened his eyes he'd known when he must be, because he'd been here in 2012, and the house wasn't even standing. It hadn't been there for a very long time. But hearing it was something else.

"I should get the doctor," Diana said, and fled the room before Desmond could say anything else crazy.

-/-

Dr. White came in a few minutes laterr, and Desmond managed to get through the visit without coming off as insane, and also without throwing up again, which was a major plus. There were no questions, which surprised Desmond. No 'where did you come from's or 'what are you doing here's. Nothing more difficult than "What did you do with your hands?"

"Um." Desmond looked down at his hands where they rested on top of the bedsheets. "I burned them," he said.

"Well yes," said the doctor. "But I've never seen burns of that type before."

Desmond only shrugged- he didn't want to talk about it, and wasn't sure he could have explained it even if he wanted to. Dr. White didn't seem satisfied with the answer, but for whatever reason, didn't press it any farther.

"You should be alright," he said after he'd finished looking Desmond over. "Your hands were burned pretty badly, but those should heal as long as you're careful not to move them too much or too soon. To be honest I couldn't have even said what was wrong with you when Connor found you. Now that you're awake, you should be fully recovered in a couple of weeks."

Desmond nodded mutely. And what was he supposed to do then, stuck in a time that was not his own? Somewhere far in the future, whatever assassins remained would be trying to come up with a way to stop Juno before she enslaved the _entirety of the human race_, and here he was, stuck in 1783.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't realize Dr. White had left the room until Connor came in. The assassin moved silently, but Desmond had spent weeks in the animus, learning his ancestor inside and out. He stared at Connor, who seemed to be studying Desmond intently. They stayed like that for several tense, silent minutes, neither of them moving or speaking.

Finally, Connor broke the silence. "I have seen you before," he said.

"You have?" How had that even happened? Unless there was some kind of inverse bleeding effect that let a person see their descendants instead of the other way around, Desmond had no explanation. Either that or he really was dead, as Juno had promised, and this was some sort of incredibly twisted afterlife.

Or possibly he had finally snapped and actually gone crazy.

Connor nodded but said no more, clearly waiting for Desmond to offer an explanation. He wished he had one to give. He would have loved to know what was going on. But Connor's relentless stare was starting to unnerve Desmond, and before he knew it he had launched into a long winded explanation- everything that had happened to him since he had first been kidnapped by Abstergo, up to the point when he had released Juno from her prison.

Connor kept his stare steadily on Desmond until he had finished with his story. Then he pulled a chair out from behind a nearby desk and dropped into it, sitting backwards so that his arms were resting on the back. He still said nothing, and finally it got to the point where Desmond couldn't take it anymore. "Well?" he snapped. "Aren't you going to tell me I'm crazy or something?" Part of him almost wished it were true. It would almost be easier if everything he'd said was an elaborate dream he'd had.

"No," said Connor.

"Oh."

"I have seen stranger."

-/-

Connor had no idea what to make of Desmond's story. He would have said it was impossible, except that Desmond's clothes were like nothing he had ever seen, his accent was strange, and he just seemed to believe in it so completely. Then there was Connor's own experience in that other world. It seemed just as crazy as anything Desmond had said.

He related his own story in short sentences, as quickly as he could. He wasn't quite convinced he could trust Desmond, but couldn't deny that telling the story out loud felt like shedding a huge weight. The burden of everything he had seen and done in that other world had been pulling him slowly down, as had the thought that he might be losing his mind.

He finished his story in much less time than Desmond had taken to tell his, and for a very long time they just sat there, two assassins who had seen too much and done too much in exchange for too little. "This place looks... dusty," Desmond said finally. Connor thought he might be looking for something safe to change the subject to.

"I haven't been looking after it much," said Connor. He was more than happy to leave talk of other worlds and impossible futures behind for the moment. "There is too much house here for one person."

Desmond nodded. "It seems too empty." He hesitated, then added, "I was here once. In the future, I mean. The house was gone, but there was a town here. Probably whatever grew out of the homestead here."

Connor wasn't surprised to hear Achilles's house had fallen sometime in the two hundred years between his time and Desmond's; time had a way of doing that. But he liked the thought of the homestead growing and changing and surviving. And of the two, he would rather see the homestead survive than the house. The people of the homestead had families, and children, and maybe someday the children of those children's children would still be in the same place, still forming a community. Connor liked the thought of it.

"What are you going to do now?" Desmond asked.

"Me?" If Connor had been in Desmond's shoes, he would have been more worried about what he was going to do while stuck in a different century.

"I've never really done much with my life," said Desmond. "I thought maybe I'd found something I could do when I got caught up with the assassins again, but-" he shrugged. "Guess that's gone now. I'm used to sort of just wasting my time with not doing very much."

"There are still people out there that will use the people for their own ends if they are allowed to," said Connor. "Templars and people like them." He hadn't given much thought to where he would go next until he said it out loud. But really, he had been an assassin since he was in his teens. What other life could he turn to?

"So you'll protect them." Desmond smiled. "Sort of an eighteenth century Batman."

"What?"

"Never mind."

"And you?"

"Maybe I'll stay," said Desmond. "There's got to be enough assholes out there for both of us." Connor nodded, and Desmond added, "Just as long as this doesn't make me Robin."

"What."

-/-

**So... this was going to be a five hundred word drabble. And then I wrote more, and it was going to be ~4k, and then Desmond went and made that Batman and Robin comparison and whoops I had to end it there before this turned into Assassin's Justice Leauge. Assassin's Leauge? I don't know. But come on, can't you just picture Connor walking around in a Batman outfit? He's got the glower down already.**


	2. Chapter 2

Connor would have been dead already if not for Desmond. He'd only come to the homestead a year ago, but already Connor had lost track of the number of times Desmond had saved his life. And never in a way Connor would have expected on that first day, when Desmond gave his incredible story. Connor knew Desmond had been trained as an assassin, but he had never saved Connor's life in battle, never even fought beside him.

Because Desmond did not fight. It annoyed Connor more than it should have sometimes, because there was so much still to do, so much he could have used Desmond's help in. But Connor did not push, no matter how badly he felt the need to. He knew that Desmond understood the importance, and that if he had decided to put away his blades, there was nothing Could could say to turn Desmond from the path he had chosen.

Which was, of all things, to teach. Desmond did not seem like an overly educated man to Connor. By his own admission, he'd had little schooling, and yet 'little schooling' in the future apparently meant more than it did in the present day. Desmond knew his letters, and was surprisingly skilled with numbers. He'd fallen into teaching mostly by accident, as far as Connor could tell, and to his own surprise seemed to enjoy it.

And so it was to the homestead's church that Connor went when he wanted to talk to Desmond. The building was rarely used except on Sundays, and Father Timothy never minded sharing the space.

Connor's visits were irregular. Sometimes he would stop by every evening, and sometimes he would go weeks without a visit. But he always came back. The life of an assassin was a difficult one, and ever since the incident with Washington and the apple, Connor had felt himself begin to believe in the hopelessness of the fight.

But in Desmond, Connor found someone that understood. Because he had been there, too. And that was how Desmond had come to save Connor's life, without even trying, and possibly without being aware. Connor had his doubts on that point, though. He knew how much time Desmond had spent in his shoes.

One balmy September evening, Connor stopped by the church to find Desmond in an unusually foul mood. Connor stood in the doorway, watching silently as Desmond gathered up books and slates, slamming them down nearly hard enough to break them, scowling all the while. After a time, he called- "You could help, you know."

"You seemed distracted," said Connor.

"I am," said Desmond. "That's the problem. "I need distraction from my distraction."

"Alright." Cautiously, Connor moved forward and began to help Desmond gather his books. Although Desmond always seemed to know exactly what Connor was thinking, there were times Connor had no idea what went on in his friend's mind. This promised to be one of them.

They worked in silence for a while, until finally Desmond asked, "Have you ever noticed that some smells always bring up certain memories?"

"Yes," said Connor. He still could not go near an open flame without at least a moment's flashback to his mother's death. "Why do you ask?"

"Because it's starting to smell like fall," said Desmond. "And it was fall when Abstergo first kidnapped me. A year ago today, actually. Kind of. Screw time travel."

"What was it like?" Connor asked. He and Desmond had never talked much about the animus, msotly because Desmond seemed so reluctant to say anything about it.

"Like all the worst parts of your life together," said Desmond. "And Altair's and Ezio's too." He shook his head. "And far too few of the good parts. But you didn't come here to listen to me complain."

"No," Connor admitted. "I have a favor I need to ask."

Desmond stiffened. "If this is about rejoining the assassins, I've told you. I'm done. I did my part. I saved the world- and look what it got me. I almost died, and Juno still got free. So no. I'm out."

"You still wear the hidden blades," Connor said. Desmond glanced down at his forearms, as though he had forgotten they were there.

"I've left the assassins," he said. "But that doesn't mean I can't defend myself."

"It doesn't matter," Connor said. He hadn't come to argue, either. "I had a different favor in mind."

"What is it?" Desmond asked.

"I need you to carry a message to New York," said Connor. Technically, the message would be going to Dobby and Clipper, and so technically was assassin business. But he was urgently needed in Boston, and there was no one else he felt he could trust the letter to.

"Really?" Desmond asked. "That's all?"

"That's all."

-/-

That very night, Desmond borrowed a horse and rode toward New York. It was a Friday, and he would not be missed or needed until the following Monday. It wasn't that he felt unwelcome in the homestead- the people had been nothing but nice, and he'd spent more than one evening with one or another of them, drinking in the inn or talking outside. The problem was that Desmond could never see his place in the community as really his own. It was Connor's home. Not his.

That was really why he'd refused to go back to being an assassin. Sometimes, even in 2012, it had been hard to keep track of who he was. The bleeding effect was less intense than it had been a year ago, an seemed to get better the longer Desmond spent outside the animus. But to take up arms again, to go back to the fight- it was something he wanted to do, something he had even come to believe in (although if given the choice between fighting templars or stopping Juno, he would choose Juno every time- sadly he had no idea how to fight her in this time). He just wasn't sure if his mind could take it. Not when it was the one thing all his ancestors had in common, and the thing most likely to send him over the edge of insanity.

But the truth was, he itched for action. Even something as simple as a ride to New York. He was bored, and while it was a change from kidnapped, comatose, or crazy, it wasn't really a nice change. So yes, he did jump at the chance to leave town for a few days.

When he rode into the city, the first thing Desmond noticed was how strange it all looked. He supposed that was a good sign. New York looked no different than it had in the animus, but it did look wildly strange compared to the twenty first century version Desmond had lived in for years.

He delivered the message without trouble and, realizing he still had plenty of time to get back, decided to spend a few hours roaming the city. He walked the docks, busy although it was just past midnight. He walked through empty markets, still littered with the remains of a full day of trade. He went past printers and taverns and stables.

And then, just at sunrise, he came to the church.

Religion had not been a major part of Desmond's childhood. His father had been openly scornful of most major religions, so of course Desmond had given religion a shot when he first ran away from home, along with basically everything else that had been forbidden on the Farm. But he had never paid much attention to the buildings before the animus trained him to climb them.

Inside the animus, churches were some of the tallest buildings around, and were almost always synch points- or to put it another way, places where he became more like his ancestors and less like himself. That was probably why he'd tried not to climb too high since leaving the animus- treeline height at best.

But today, for whatever reason, Desmond climbed that church. And at the very top he stopped, and for nearly an hour did nothing but survey the world around him. He did nothing but stand there, watching the sunrise, feeling intensely, gloriously, alone. There was no one in his head but himself. Not even a hint of his ancestors. And at that moment, he knew.

Altair, Ezio, and Connor were all assassins, and through them Desmond had learned the art. But just because he had learned through them, it did not mean that it was not he, Desmond, who chose that life now. To deny what he wanted, just because it happened to agree with what his ancestors wanted was just another way of allowing the animus to control his life.

-/-

The next time Connor saw Desmond, he looked surprisingly happy. It was a week and a half since they'd last spoken, and Connor had returned from Boston only the night before. When they happened to pass on the path in the homestead, Connor noticed that Desmond was even smiling. But they had no chance to talk until later that afternoon, when Connor stopped by the church to talk. This time, esmond seemed to be waiting for him.

"Connor," he said. "Hey."

"Desmond," Connor greeted, cautiously. He had no idea what was coming next, but he doubted it would be good. His trip to Boston had gone badly- he had been injured (Not seriously, but enough), and received some unwelcome news. He had a feeling whatever Desmond had to say would be just as bad. Nothing was going right, recently.

"I want to come back to the assassins."

Well. That had not been what Connor expected to hear. What exactly had happened in New York?

He didn't ask, because he could see Desmond was earnest int his. Before, when Desmond had first arrived, he had talked some about joining in with the assassins. But he had seemed unsure, and as time went on, he mentioned it less and less, until at least he did not speak of it at all. At the end, Connor had brought it up, and they had a flaming argument. Since then, it had not been mentioned. But this time, he seemed certain.

Connor had never asked why Desmond changed his mind in the first place. But with this sudden about face, he fully intended to get an explanation. Not now, though. For the moment, Connor only nodded. "Welcome back," he said.

-/-

2013 had not been a good year for the assassins- they grew ever weaker, all while the templars got stronger. And Juno was somewhere, not making her presence known yet, but somehow that was worse.

Shaun and Rebecca spent most of that year on their own, moving from safe house to safe house (although Shaun often thought 'safe' was more a joke than anything these days). Neither of them were fighters, so they were kept busy in other ways. There were precursor artifacts to hunt down- an impossible task under the best of times, and doubly so now. But there was no other choice. They needed them.

It was because they were so busy that Shaun didn't get a chance to go through his Connor files until the middle of September. It was a collection of all the research he'd done on early America to help Desmond out during his last few months in the animus, and honestly Shaun had yet to even glance at most of them.

But they were taking up valuable space on his computer, so now they had to go.

Shaun made a quick pass through his files, checking to make sure there was nothing important accidentally deleted. A small part of these files were copies of documents made at Davenport homestead during the time Connor had lived there, and one of them was the journal of a girl named Maria- the same Maria from the animus, Shaun assumed, daughter of Ellen the tailor.

On a whim, for no real reason at all, Shaun started to read through it.

At first, it was mostly copied out exercises, simple words and phrases. Later, there were descriptions of Maria's life, small sentences full of misspellings. Later, as her confidence in her writing grew, the journal got more interesting. Maria didn't seem to be happy unless she was getting into some kind of trouble, and Shaun even found himself close to smiling a couple of times.

Then, about halfway through the journal, Maria started people watching, and Shaun read with genuine interest her descriptions of the people he'd seen in the animus. Her opinion of Connor (who she apparently idolized) was interesting. But then, Connor had driven Maria's abusive father away, and to judge by the way she seemed to enjoy going everywhere and doing everything she wasn't allowed to do, maybe Connor wasn't such a surprise as a roll model.

Shaun was still idly musing on this when he turned to the next page, and saw the last name he would have expected.

_Desmond Miles. Tall, dark hair, says he's twenty three but I think he's older. He lies a lot. He told me he's from New York but he doesn't act like anyone from New York I've ever met. He's kind of like Connor. Sad a lot and sometimes he climbs up on things. But not as much as Connor and he doesn't do it if he thinks anyone else is watching. He has a really nice tattoo on one arm. You can't see it when he's teaching because he always covers it up but one time I climbed up to a hunting blind and he was there. I saw his tattoo then and he was really nice when I asked about it. And he didn't even tell my mother I was climbing trees so I guess he's pretty nice._

When he finished reading the entry, Shaun stared at it for fifteen solid minutes. He didn't realise how out of it he was until he heard Rebecca nearly shouting his name.

"What?" he asked.

"I've been calling for five minutes." Rebecca had on her 'trying not to look worried' face, which meant she was extremely worried.

"I-"

She looked even more concerned to see him tongue tied. "What's wrong?"

"Look at this," Shaun said, and showed her the journal page. Rebecca read it, then looked back at Shaun, her face stony.

"This isn't funny."

"Good," said Shaun. "It's not a joke. That file has been on my computer since last November. It was there before Desmond was-" Was what? Killed? Sent back in time?

Their eyes met, and Rebecca said- "So he's alive."

"Only if he's figured out how to live a couple of centuries," Shaun pointed out. "This was written hundreds of years ago."

"Okay," said Rebecca. "So he's alive in another century. He got there. We just have to go get him."

Shaun opened his mouth to tell her she was crazy, but what came out was- "Alright."

**-/-**

**And I guess this isn't a oneshot anymore. I don't know how that happened but here have a chapter.**


End file.
